


All These Things I've Done

by AndSoIWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addict Sam, Demon Blood Addiction, Withdrawal, demon blood withdrawal, season five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndSoIWrite/pseuds/AndSoIWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has to choose between killing his brother and letting him die. And Sam just has to choose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

         The first thing Dean notices is that the air isn’t humid here, not like it was in the South. Where Sam struggled to breathe through wrecked lungs, turning nights into coughing marathons, days into races to see who would break first. Sam or Dean. Sam because his body is literally falling apart around him, fracturing into pieces that float through space and time and most horrifically, away from Dean. And Dean because watching Sam shatter is like someone digging fishhooks under his skin, tearing and ripping the flesh from his bones with precision and delicacy.

          But here, Sam raises his head from where it is resting against the window of the Impala and sucks in a breath, a surprised sigh coming back out when his body isn’t wracked with seizing from the action. Hazel eyes travel upwards from the dashboard to the windshield in stunted movement as if Sam is prepared to see something truly awful in front of him and not a willowing canopy of green against an impressive backdrop of peaks that rise high into the clouds.

         “Dean?”

         Of course Dean is right there, opening the door, reaching out a hand.

        “Right here, buddy.”

        “Where are we?”

         He leans on his brother, letting Dean carry the minimal weight that’s left on his emaciated body, hating that he needs so much support but knowing the alternative is worse. Sam has been on the bathroom floor before, forehead to the tile as every muscle in his body twists and contracts. He’s dropped to his knees in the middle of a crowded diner as his veins narrow and scream, too empty.

         That’s the word that comes to mind when Dean glances over, gripping tight as Sam shuffles along the grass, barely lifting a foot because these days even a few inches of air is too much to put between him and the ground. This is just a shell of the gun-wielding, corpse-burning man who raged beside Dean, sometimes in front of him, burning with a fire ignited in him at six months old. Now the fire is ash and Sam is choking on it.

         “The mountains,” Dean says. “Upstate New York.” Sam doesn’t question him because he’s Dean and no other reason is needed. Not when the elder Winchester has spent the last three months shoving soup and dry crackers down his throat or continually being at his side when the food inevitably makes a reappearance. Not when Dean gave up his entire life to take care of the last family member he has left.

           Sam Winchester. The addict.

           “I have to check in,” Dean tells him after they spend too long getting up three wooden stairs into a cabin that sways and blurs in front of Sam. He drops onto a couch that is too short for his body but Dean has already arranged pillows and blankets and Sam curls into the nest like a child. “Are you okay to stay by yourself?”

           “I’m fine,” Sam says and when Dean doesn’t move adds, “I’m not going to kill anyone if that’s what you mean.”

           “That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, swinging his gaze to the left where a picture window takes up one side of the cabin, exposing the view of a pristine lake. “Here,” he says when Sam doesn’t answer. Dean sets two pill bottles and a bottle of water on the coffee table, easily within reach, and then unstraps his watch. “You still have thirty minutes until the next dose and I expect to be back before then but if I’m not, take one of each pill when the alarm goes off.” Sam squints up at him.

           “Where are you going?”

_Empty. Even his mind is shrinking._

           “I have to check in,” Dean repeats. “Did you hear me about the pills?”

           “Yeah,” Sam says, raising one finger off the couch in a dismissal. “Bye.”

            Before he leaves, Dean slips a revolver under Sam’s pillow.

* * *

         After the grass comes a gravel path that leads up a small hill, the rocks twisting underneath Dean’s boots. He walks without looking back, worried that he’s going to see Sam through the windows, rifling through the duffel bags in the bedroom, searching for the object that sits in Dean’s jean pocket. His fingers curl around the dropper. Such a small object but in the past months it’s turned into Dean’s anchor, pinning him to reality in the most brutal ways. It’s warm from the heat of his body and comforting in the folds of his palm.

          There are other small cabins along the path, dotted with brightly colored beach towels, life jackets, sandals. Children’s playthings are sitting outside and Dean even spots a couple of the tiny creatures by a cabin to his far left, crawling in the grass being followed by watchful adults. Babysitters. Just like Dean. He might not be watching a toddler but the person in his charge is almost as weak, not quite as clueless. Creeping away from Dean when his back is turned, but without the curious smirks of childhood that lead to cuddles and forgiveness.

          The air here is pure and somehow simple, as if Dean can feel each molecule swimming through his veins, settling into him for the duration of their stay. Who knows how long that will be. He told Bobby that he brought Sam here for a change of scenery, that the house in Sioux Falls was becoming a prison. He told Sam he brought him here because this is where they had come for a weekend as children. Not here, specifically, but in this mountainous region. But though Dean is an adept liar on his worst day, he can’t lie to himself.

          He brought his brother here to die.

          Because Sam doesn’t deserve to die in a musty boarded-up house that reeks of old books and liquor, nor is it fitting that he leave this world in a cramped motel room with stains on the carpet. No, Dean wants more for his brother. He wants him to die surrounded by beauty.

          And it’s beautiful here, encircled by the high mountains that roll out as far as he can see. Their tops tickle the sky, seeming to swirl the clouds into foamy murals. The trees are huge, not the raggedy plants of the Midwest but full and voluptuous, towering over Dean. It might be good for Sam to be dwarfed for once. His brother has so little to crane his neck up to these days.

         The large building in front of him – maybe the size of four of the smaller cabins put together – is crusted in bark and ivy, vines running up the sides to the tin roof. For a second Dean just stares because while he’s seen some things, it’s not often he as impressed as he is now. From the gigantic stone steps to the flowers placed at random intervals, this place is better than the photo he saw in the magazine. It’s ancient and regal and natural and Dean’s heart stutters out a foreign four-letter word.

         The stone steps lead inside to a dimly lit lodge, more bark, more ivy, less flowers. It’s spacious and airy with furniture containing rips and tears and moth-eaten armrests. Yet somehow, it’s endearing, not disgusting. There’s a huge black couch that curves around the main room in a semi-circle with armchairs in all four corners. Photographs of deer and moose and ducks line the wall and decorate the endtables and even the lamps appear to be in the shape of pinecones.

         “Can I help you?” A woman’s voice comes from his left and he takes a step back involuntarily when he comes face to face with a black bear, high up on his hind legs, mouth open in a snarl. A laugh seems to come from the exposed teeth. “Don’t worry, it’s stuffed.” Dean blinks and sees the bear’s eyes are glass, the paws frozen. He peers around the statue and spies an older woman sitting behind a desk made of, yes, wood.

         “Uh, hi,” he says, annoyed that he let a stuffed bear get the better of him. It’s been too long since a Hunt.

         “Can I help you?” the woman repeats. She’s older than he first thought, her hair not blonde but gray, cut close to her head but still curly. Glasses hang on a chain around her neck and her eyes are a piercing blue. Piercing but kind. And Dean knows instinctively that his woman has been through some stuff.

         “Dean Winchester,” he says, holding out a hand that she takes. The calluses on her hand match his.

         “Great, we were expecting you,” she says, sitting back down and rifling through some papers. “Take a seat. Did you have a good drive?” Hospitality isn’t really Dean’s thing, not to give or receive so, he stumbles over his tongue.

         “Uh, yeah. Fine.”

        “Where did you come from?” The inquiry is polite; she doesn’t want the information, she’s just asking.

        “South Dakota.” She whistles.

        “Wow. That’s a long way.”

        “Yeah.” He shifts in the chair, feeling the dropper dig into his thigh.

        “Now you said on the phone you were coming with your brother, right?” Dean clears his throat. He knows how to talk about this, has been practicing this speech for days.

        “Yes, Sam. He’s sick and I thought this might be a good place for him to relax. It looked real calm on the website.”

        “Oh, it is,” the woman agrees, pulling out a sheaf of paper and putting on her glasses. “I’m so sorry about your brother.” Dean looks her straight in the eye.

        “It’s cancer.”

        “Nasty thing, isn’t it?” the woman says. “My husband passed away just last year from it.”

        “I’m sorry,” Dean says.

        “I’m Diane, by the way,” she says and just like that, Sam is no longer a problem. “Welcome to The Lodge. I hope you and your brother are comfortable here. Just sign right here and you can pay the rest when you check out. You’re staying two weeks, right?”

        Dean scribbles his names and looks over the paper; it’s a list of waterfront rules.

        “No swimming after dark, no diving anywhere, no swimming alone, no food or drink on the docks. The docks are just down the path from your cabin,” she explains. “You’re free to use them at your pleasure. We have kayaks and canoes and motorboats for rent also. The pricing is found on the back of that sheet, yep right there. Any questions?”

        “No ma’am,” Dean says, standing up because it’s been longer than he thought and he needs to get back to Sam. “Thank you so much.”

        “If you have any questions, just come here to the Main Lodge or ask one of the workers around. They wear dark green shirts.”

        “Thank you,” Dean says and leaves, ignoring the flowers this time. The waterfront rules are bunched in his right hand. Maybe they’ll rent a boat one day, Sam might like that. He passes the docks on his way back, noticing the numerous lounge chairs set up with a couple people relaxing in them. It’s chillier now then when they arrived and Dean grabs his flannel from the front seat of the Impala before going inside.

        Sam’s on the couch but he’s shivering, the blankets thrown to the floor, his hands cradling his head. The pill bottles are exactly where Dean left them.

        “Hey, Sammy,” Dean says to signal his presence and Sam’s head twitches in his direction but his fingers are trembling as they press into his skull.

        “Dean, let me have it,” he moans. “Please.”

        “Not right now,” Dean says, unscrewing the bottles and getting the pills out. The dropper burns in his pocket.

        “Dean, please. I’m dying.”

        And he is but not in the way Sam is talking about.

        “No you’re not.”

        “Yes I aaaaamm,” his brother whines, sounding ten years old again. A tremor rocks through his body, sending his feet slamming into the end of the couch.

        “Alright,” Dean eases, swallowing hard because this never gets easier. He wraps an arm around Sam’s shaking shoulder, trying to absorb some of the motion. “Sam, sit up a little. Help me out.” But Sam stopped helping Dean a long time ago, can hardly help himself. Dean grunts, taking his brother’s weight, slipping the pills into the corner of Sam’s mouth.

        “Don’t spit them out,” he warns as he uncaps the water and wraps Sam’s fingers around the bottle. “Swallow.” Sam’s shaking so hard, the water sloshes over his lips and chin, catches Dean on the cheek.

        “I want it,” Sam mumbles around the still-there pills, pushing them around with his tongue, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead.

        “I know,” Dean says. His voice doesn’t crack but it’s close. He hates this, hates it more than he hates anything in this whole goddamn world. His heart is swollen and caught in his throat, pulsing out a beat so fierce Dean thinks he might throw up. “You can have it later, Sam.”

        “I want it now!” Sam demands and Dean thanks god his brother has lost strength because a month ago he could of thrown Dean off but now he just bucks once and then falls back to the couch. “Give it to me.”

          “After the pills,” Dean lies. He pulls a couple more out because Sam has spit his out and they are already lost in the cushions of the couch. This time, Dean holds the water and then runs a palm along Sam’s throat, urging him to swallow. “There,” he says a minute later when the trembling has subsided and Sam is limp against him. “Better?”

            Sam doesn’t nod, doesn’t say a word as his dazed eyes flutter shut and Dean waits a few more moments before sliding out from behind him, covering him with a blanket. The pills are a combination of sedative and morphine, enough to knock Sam out and cover the pain for a while. Buying a little more time before Dean has to use his last resort.

* * *

 

            Sam wakes up for dinner, which is soup from a can and some fresh strawberries that Dean got from a farmer’s stand on their way to the cabin. He dices them into a white bowl, staining his fingers red before sucking the juice off them. Meal preparation is one thing Dean actually doesn’t mind doing these days. It’s calming to be able to chop and dice and fillet and it’s always a time of quiet as Sam sleeps. There’s no moaning, no whimpers to distract him. Just Dean and the food.

            There’s a worn table with two chairs on the other side of the living room and he sets two places, finding plates and silverware in the kitchen. It’s a small place but cozy, with creaking floors that create a certain melody as Dean moves from fridge to stove to cutting board. Sam doesn’t like loud music these days so Dean relishes in any sound besides his own breathing, loving the swish of the knife and the crackling of the propane burner. He has the door to outside open so he can hear the waves of the lake crashing into the shore and the crickets that hide in the thicket behind the cabin.

            “Dean?”

            “Right here,” Dean says, going to the doorway. “What’s up?”

            “’m thirsty,” Sam says. He’s been asleep three hours and he always wakes up with cottonmouth; it’s the pills doing.

            “The rest of your water is right beside you on the table.”

            “Can you turn on the light?” Dean pauses as he was about to turn back to the kitchen. Lights are on everywhere. Two lights in the kitchen, the overhead in the living room. Dusky sunlight comes through the picture window.

            “It’s on,” Dean says and Sam frowns, eyes snapping open all the way but Dean can see even from across the room they are unfocused and glassy.

            “No it’s not,” Sam says crossly, sitting up and rubbing his eyelids with his palms so that white spots appear against the dark background. Dean’s gaze flickers to the light above them and panic builds behind his ribs. Sam reaches out and his fingers knock into the bottle he obviously can’t see, tipping it over. Dean crosses the room without a word and puts it in his brother’s hand. Sam’s face tilts up and when he speaks, his voice wavers.

            “Dean?”

            “It’s okay, Sam.”

            _This is not okay._

            “I’m blind.”

            It’s a matter-of-fact statement and there might even be a bit of dry humor twisted into the words and for just that moment, Sam sounds like himself again. Somehow that’s even worse than when he sounds as sick as he is.

            “Can you see anything?” Sam squints as if this will help – it doesn’t – and thinks he sees the dark shape that is Dean in front of him. He can feel the water bottle still clenched in his fist, the rippled surface cool against his palm but he can’t see it and Sam is frustrated because his body has played enough tricks on him.

            “Shapes,” he says finally. “But not much.”

            “Let’s eat,” is all Dean responds with and Sam doesn’t move a muscle as Dean finishes putting the food on. “The table is over here,” Dean says, leading Sam with an arm around his shoulders, pushing him down into a chair. Then he takes Sam’s hand in his and the younger Winchester is surprised at the gentleness of his brother’s movements as he shows him the silverware, the circumference of the soup bowl, dips his fingertips into the bowl of strawberries.

            “How was your walk?” Sam asks a couple minutes later. It took a few tries but he finally managed to get the soup from the bowl to his mouth without spilling it in his lap. The strawberries are sweet and juicy and taste just right on his tongue.

            “Good,” Dean says. “It’s nice looking here.” He wants to tell Sam about the lake and the boats they can rent and even the flowers by the Main Lodge but they are both ignoring Sam’s lack of vision.

            “Cool,” Sam says. For the rest of dinner they talk about trivial things like Hunts that Bobby is helping out with and what Hunters in the area might be up to. Afterwards, Dean cleans up – the slosh of water as he does the dishes is one of his favorite sounds – and then he proposes that they go outside. Sam’s back on the couch but sitting up, staring at what Dean assumes is nothing.

            “Sammy?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Let’s go for a walk.” Hesitation ties a string between them and pulls tight.

            “I don’t think so.”

            “Yes,” Dean says. He has learned that you have to tell Sam to do things and not ask. “We’re going.”

            “I don’t want to.”

            “I know. But it will be good for you.” Dean’s already pulling on his flannel and then he slips Sam’s arms through his own.

            “Why?”

            “Because there’s fresh air outside and fresh air is good for everyone.”

            “Even demon blood addicts.” It’s not a question and Dean pretends Sam never even said it because who needs reminders at a time like this.

            They make it to the porch and then down those three steps and Sam can tell when the grass between his feet switches to something looser. Stones, he guesses. It _does_ smell good out here, like pine and water and life. Everything is one dark blur and maybe this would have freaked Sam out once upon a time but he knows he’s dying so why wouldn’t he go blind? He hears the lake getting closer and remembers the first time John took Sam and Dean canoeing. They had been too small to help paddle and had sat in the middle of the canoe as John sailed them around the lake.

            “I want to call Dad.” There’s silence next to him and wood under his feet. Dean lets go for a minute and Sam panics.

            “I’m getting you a chair. We’re on the docks by the water.” Dean’s voice says from several feet away. “Stay put, Sammy.” He does what Dean says. It’s weird being dizzy and being blind at the same time but his head is starting to swim, the sweat rolling down his neck and Sam knows this is the beginning. Every night is the same.

            “Can we call Dad?” he asks again when Dean sits him in a chair. Plastic scrapes against wood as Dean draws one up for himself.

            “No.” Sam frowns.

            “Why not?”

            “The cell phones are dead,” Dean says. Sam can’t see but his brother is staring straight ahead, elbows on his knees, chin resting on folded hands. John’s been dead for three years but the addict part of Sam’s brain has eaten away the sensible part; this isn’t the first time he’s asked for their father.

            “Can you charge them?”

            “Sure. We’ll call tomorrow.” Satisfied, Sam leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs. A cool breeze floats over them, lifting the ends of Sam’s hair up. Dean had given him a haircut a couple weeks ago but Sam made him keep it long. He hears Dean talking but it’s not to him; he suspects there’s another person with them and Sam keeps quiet, concentration slipping enough to let his mind wander without thinking, focusing only on the feel of the air against his skin and the husky murmur of Dean’s voice.

            They stay on the docks until the sun goes down and then Dean leads Sam back into the cabin, digging out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt for Sam to sleep in. Off the living room is the bedroom with two double beds and a small bathroom. He shows Sam around the bathroom and leaves the door open just in case, but his brother manages well for a recently blind person and slips into his clothes without help, waiting by the door for Dean to retrieve him.

            “This sucks,” Sam says and then in the same breath asks, “Where are we?”

            _emptyemptyempty_

            “At a lake,” Dean reminds him. “In the mountains.”

            “Where’s Bobby?” The bed is soft and sinks just the right amount under his weight and Dean fluffs his pillows. The collar of Sam’s t-shirt is already damp with sweat and the tremors have reappeared in his hands. Dean knows without looking at his watch that in two hours he’s going to have to make the decision again. He’s going to have to choose.

            “Not here,” Dean says, pulling the blankets up, sitting on his own bed to take off his shoes. His feet are sore, his back is sore, even his fingernails are sore it seems. Sam shifts in bed as Dean pulls out the dropper, keeping his body between it and his brother, but Sam’s moving restlessly. He can smell it.

            “Dean?” The voice is childlike again, petulant and small.

            “No, Sammy,” Dean says firmly. And that’s that for now. But it won’t last. Dean knows from experience that in another hour Sam’s breathing will grow shallow and his clothes will soak through with sweat and his heart will race too rapidly to count individual beats. He’ll moan and scream and beg Dean to kill him, to put a blade through his heart. Another hour after that and the pleading will stop and that’s when Dean will make the choice because every second that goes by brings Sam one step closer to the end and they both know it. And this has become Dean’s life: the choosing every night between using the dropper and allowing Sam to live another day or doing nothing at all and erasing the possibility of his brother’s future.

            Dean doesn’t know how many more nights he can take, how many more times he can make this decision. It’s been three months and each morning he refills the dropper from a secret stash Sam doesn’t know about, can’t know about. He hates that this responsibility is his and yet he can’t imagine it any other way.

            “Dean?”

            “What?”

            “Will you let me die tonight?”

            A pause that links them together far more than blood, human or demon. Then a sigh because Dean doesn’t know. Outside, there’s a lake and trees and maybe even a boat. The air here seems to hold a promise and Dean has a weakness for promises. Always has, probably always will. And there, in the cabin in the woods beside a lake ringed with wildflowers, the decision is made.

           “No, Sammy. Not tonight.”

 


	2. Chapter Two

         Dean is up and moving by the time Sam stirs. There are blueberry pancakes on the stove and Dean even warms up some of the maple syrup he found in the cabinet. It’s the scent of hot sugar that wakes Sam up all the way. Once a health nut, the withdrawal seems to have teased out his sweet tooth, rivaling even Dean’s need for sugary goodness of all kinds. His vision is blurry but not everything is dark like it was last night and this here is the double-edged sword of the demon blood. Healing and destroying at the same time. Sam can still taste it, remembers nothing else but Dean pinning him down as he drips the demon blood into his mouth, letting the stream end too soon.

            It floats through his veins like a butterfly through the sky, slow and easy, painting patterns on the inside of his veins, turning Sam into a piece of art. Sam hates to need it because it makes him weak. It used to fill him with strength and power, make him invincible in every way a Hunter could wish. In between the fever dreams and hallucinations, it is the indestructibility that fills his mind. He misses it leaking from his pores like the sweat he is always covered in.

            Sam makes it to the doorway of the kitchen, leaning on the wall for support. Dean has his back to him and Sam thinks he’s whistling and for a moment he forgets about last night and all the nights waiting before them. He focuses on Dean making breakfast and the fact they are here in the mountains not on a Hunt but on a sort of vacation and finally all that other crap is behind them. Sam doesn’t give two shits about angels and demons at the moment and god all he wants is a blueberry pancake and for his brother to look at him like he’s a normal person again.

            “Morning,” Sam says. Dean whirls around, Hunter instincts coming out as he drops the spatula and reaches for his waistband. Sam holds up both hands. “Whoa, it’s just me.”

            “Sammy,” Dean says, surprised. “What are you doing up?” Sam cocks his head.

            “I, uh, woke up. Smells good,” he offers.

            “Yeah,” Dean grunts. “Go sit down and I’ll bring it out in a minute.”

            “Want some help?”

            “No,” Dean says, turning back to the stove and picking up the spatula again. Sam goes and sits, exploring the cabin with his fuzzy eyesight, picking out the couch he lounged on yesterday and the two end tables that are sculpted to look like some kind of leaf. The carpet is threadbare and it squeaks under his weight, bringing out Sam’s newfound irritation with every little annoyance the Earth offers up.

            “Here you go,” Dean says, sliding a plate in front of him; a glass of orange juice follows. He sits down opposite Sam and watches his brother take slow, deliberate bites, trying to ignore the way the knife clatters against the fork as he cuts his pancakes. The dropper is filled again, back in his pocket and he knows Sam can smell it, wants it more than he wants to be alive. That in particular kills Dean; there’s nothing the Hunter has ever wanted more than to stay alive and he can’t wrap his head around the fact of Sam putting himself in such danger for such a stupid thing. But that’s the thing about addicts. All rationality launches itself out the window.

            Sam eats half of one pancake in the time that Dean eats three but each of them pretend not to notice.

            “How are your eyes?” Dean asks, leaning back in his chair, stomach happily stretched.

            “Better,” Sam says. He can’t help it when his gaze drops to Dean’s pocket. His eyesight might not be perfect but Dean was right in his assumption that Sam can smell the blood. He knows exactly how much is in that dropper, can even tell what kind of demon it has come from. When Dean is in the cabin he knows exactly where it is at all times, what angle it’s resting at in his brother’s pocket. It’s like a pair of magnets singing to each other: one in Sam’s body and it’s partner in the blood.

            “You shouldn’t have given it to me,” Sam says.

            “Don’t start,” Dean warns. This is the argument that underlined those first weeks of the demon blood absence. It always starts with Sam saying he doesn’t want Dean to save him anymore, for Dean to put him out of his misery and Dean refusing because he isn’t about to kill his baby brother. By now Sam knows that’s it fruitless to even breach the subject because they’re living in Dean’s world now, playing by his rules. And he’s calling the strikes.

            “Just saying,” Sam can’t help but mumble, feeling five years old again, chastised by big brother for the millionth time. He understands he lost the right to most everything when he started downing the stuff but you would think he could have kept some control over his own body. But every time he’s gone to do himself in, with a knife or a gun or even a bottle of those morphine pills, something sharp behind his navel stops him, warning him that Dean doesn’t deserve that. Hell, no one deserves that.

            “How you feeling?” Dean asks as he clears the plates.

            “Fine.” All that does is earn him a glare and then Dean’s hand on his forehead.

            “You’re warm.”

            “No shit. Get off me, Dean.”

            “Stop whining.”

            “Shut up.”

            “Jerk.”

            “Bitch.”

            The mornings tend to start like this, in good spirits and jesting. It’s the time of day when Sam feels like maybe he can beat this thing – even when he knows he can’t. There’s something about the newness of the sun in the beginning of the day that tugs at the human part of him, rejuvenating him after each tortuous night. He knows it’s times like these that make Dean keep feeding him the drug of choice. It’s only later in the day when things inevitably take a bad turn that either one of them falters.

            “Let’s go outside,” Sam suggests and Dean glances at his watch.

            “Forty minutes.”

            “Why not now?”

            “You know why.” Dean’s cell rings, preventing the coming argument and Sam moves to the couch. It’s hard to ignore the ever-present itch under his skin but he thumbs through his iPod until he finds the audiobook Dean downloaded for him last week.

            “Hey, Bobby,” he hears Dean say. “Yeah, he’s okay. No, same thing last night. Yeah, I know and…” Sam turns up the volume to block out his brother’s voice.

            Chapter four has just begun and the book is actually getting good when Sam’s stomach does a backflip and he sits up, trying to rip the headphones from his ears but they end up getting tangled in his long fingers, twisting like snakes around his knuckles. He grunts as his stomach rolls again, gathers his legs to push off the couch but the stupid carpet is thin and slippery and one knee collides with the coffee table, sending it two feet into the living room.

            “Dammit,” Sam growls. His skin is pulsing, sending vibrations through him that feel more aftershocks from a high scale earthquake. The tremors are coming from his core, a too-familiar sensation that he hates more than most anything these days because they signal what’s coming next. 

            “De-”

            His brother’s name doesn’t get any further. Breakfast appears back in front of Sam, splashing onto the carpet and Sam’s jeans and his shoes and god, this is disgusting. His hair is stuck to his cheek and he’s pretty sure he just threw up part of his stomach lining.

            Sometime later – seconds or a minute or ten, time evaporates as quickly as Sam’s dignity – there’s a hand gripping his forearm and another hand behind his neck.

            “Sammy,” Dean’s voice says in his ear. “Can you make it to the bathroom, bud?” Sam manages to hold back the next wave and Dean half-carries, half-drags him to the tiny bathroom where Sam all but collapses in front of the old, porcelain toilet, Dean supporting him until he’s sure Sam’s okay and then the elder Winchester takes a seat on the edge of the tub. This is the next part of the day; like a clock striking on the hour, Sam will inevitably empty his stomach and then some, the liquid tinged with red at the end as if even his body is hell bent on escaping from him.

            It’s over in twenty minutes, the heaving turns to gasps and then nothing, Sam’s head resting on the toilet seat, which is splattered with things Dean would rather not think about. He runs a washcloth under warm water and wipes first Sam’s hands then his face leaving briefly to gather fresh clothes. He doesn’t ask this time, just tugs Sam’s shirt off and then helps with his jeans, discarding the soiled clothing in the corner before putting on the clean items. Sam’s breathing is still shaky, lungs rattling inside the cave of his chest.

           “Dean?”

           “What?”

           “Can you please put it in another room?” Dean hesitates, so many tricks have been played, so many foolish moments. Sam leans back against the sink cabinet, eyes closed; the lids look almost translucent in the dim lighting. “I won’t do anything,” he promises. “I just can’t…” he trails off. There’s so much he can’t do anymore but he really can’t take the sweet lure of the blood just feet away. It makes it harder to focus on anything else.

           Dean gets to his feet and there’s shuffling from the next room over and then Dean is back but lighter, so much lighter, no longer carrying the anchor in his pocket. Sam’s chest loosens just a fraction as Dean gets down beside him and just sits, watching the peeling wallpaper across from them.

           “Thanks,” Sam says after a while when his voice no longer sounds like a feather floating downward.

           “No problem,” Dean says back. His hand reaches out and rests against the underbelly of Sam’s forearm where the skin is smooth and sensitive. It’s still a shock to Sam that his brother can touch him so easily when before Dean avoided contact at all costs, often going out of his way to never brush up against Sam. As if he didn’t want to be contaminated. Now his older brother seems to be made up of nothing but soft touches: the back of his hand on Sam’s forehead, strong fingers to help steady him, a nudge with his foot to get his attention. It’s weird but soothing at the same time and Sam decided some time ago he likes the attention; it makes him feel human and attached to something. He likes being attached to Dean.

           “They’re not so bad,” Dean says, referencing the spasms under his palm where Sam’s muscles are auditioning for the ballet, leaping and twisting.

           “Not today,” Sam agrees.

           “Ready to get up?”

           They move from the bathroom to the bedroom to the living room where Dean places Sam’s washed off pair of boots near his feet and then disappears, coming back a moment later dragging the anchor with him. His expression is apologetic for a moment as Sam’s eyes snap upwards.

           “Outside will be easier,” Dean tells him. “There’s a lot to look at.”

_There’s a lot to smell._

           He throws a blanket over his arm and they head outdoors where it’s chilly and sunny at the same time, Sam’s absolute favorite weather. He adores the warmth of the sun on his skin, the way it seems to saturate down to his bones, dripping into his veins like another drug.

           This time Sam can see the docks, not that they’re anything to marvel out, just floating piles of wood with canvas stretched across them to avoid splinters in the feet. He feels silly in jeans and boots when everyone else is wearing swimsuits and sundresses but Dean doesn’t seem to notice or care at how much the two of them stick out. He just draws up two chairs and puts Sam in one, throwing the blanket over him and then takes the other for himself.

          “This is nice,” Dean says, stretching out, placing his hands on his stomach, reclining all the way back in the lounge and closing his eyes.

          “Yeah,” Sam says, unable to shut his own eyes because he’s too busy taking in everything. The lake is big – bigger than he thought it would be when Dean told him about this place. _A family resort on the placid waters of Moose Lake, a rustic hideaway in the middle of abundant nature._ Well, there sure is nature; this place reeks of it. Funnily enough, until the demon blood, Sam never thought much about the outdoors. Sure, he respects it and has camped more than he cares to admit; he knows the basics of outdoor survival, has hunted enough sons of bitches in the woods to know how to be smart. But the demon blood has amped up his senses tenfold, bringing to light everything he was missing beforehand. There’s a reason so many candles are pine-scented he thinks as he raises his nose to the air, breathing in the scent of evergreen. It’s mixed with the deeper scents of oak and the lighter scent of maple. Something stings slightly as he sniffs and it takes him a moment to figure out that’s the birch trees. If he can ignore Dean’s pocket, it’s amazing what’s out there waiting for him.

          The lake smells clean, heavy with the scent of fish and mud, the two rolling together in a gritty but pure way. He’d like to touch the lake, wonders if it feels as silky as it looks. Sam can feel Dean crack an eye and watch him as he slips off the blanket, rocking to his feet and shuffling forward.

          “Careful,” his brother warns, sitting up, ready if he’s needed. Sam sits Indian-style and dips his hand over the edge into the water. It weaves through his fingers like ribbon, curling and gliding and Sam has the urge to giggle. He might have actually done it because Dean is at his back a second later and Sam can’t see his face but he can _feel_ the concern.

          Dean watches his brother drop his hand again up to wrist and thinks he hears that strange noise again, one that sounded almost like a laugh. He takes a step to the side, bends a little to see Sam’s voice and geez, the kid is smiling, totally entranced by the liquid dripping from his hand. It’s not the upturned grimace that haunts both of their faces these days but an expression of wonderment, as if Sam has never submerged his hand in water before. It reminds Dean of that weekend long ago, the one that inspired this trip in the first place.

_“Are we there yet?” seven-year-old Sam asks, drumming his feet against the back of the passenger seat. Dean shoots him an annoyed glance._

_“Don’t do that,” he warns just before John cranes his neck backward and catches sight of the irritable children._

_“Sam, don’t kick the car. You wouldn’t kick your house, would you?” Even at seven, Sam has perfected what Dean calls the “death glare” and he shoots it as his father._

_“I wouldn’t know since I’ve never had a house.”_

_“Samuel.” His father sighs; he’s driven ten hours straight and both boys are in a mood. It doesn’t help that John refuses to tell them where they’re going, has dragged them away from Uncle Bobby’s for some special road trip._

_“We’re here,” John announces twenty minutes later. Both Sam and Dean press their noses to the window, Sam fogging up the glass while Dean holds his breath._

_“Where are we?” Sam wants to know. All he sees are trees and grass; it looks as if they’re in the middle of a forest. His tiny heart sinks. He’s been hoping the whole day that this isn’t a Hunt but he knows what camping looks like and as John winds deeper on the dirt road everything starts to feel too familiar. Dean seems to be thinking the same thing._

_“What are we hunting?” the older Winchester asks. John chuckles._

_“We’re not hunting this weekend, boys.” Sam’s heart leaps up so fast he almost chokes on it._

_“We’re not?” The Impala slows and stops and John lets the scenery before them answer Sam’s question. In front of them is a good-sized cabin sitting on a grassy knoll. The hill slopes downward so that the boys can’t see what’s on the other side of the cabin but the minute the doors open, the chirping of birds fill their ears. That’s always a good sign; happy birds mean nothing supernatural nearby. Sam runs ahead while Dean stays behind to help his father unload the bags._

_“Dean, come look at this! Wow, this is awesome!”_

_“Let’s go check it out,” John says, winking at his firstborn. Dean grins and drops the bags, following his father. He stops in his track when he sees what caught Sam’s attention. On the other side of the cabin sits a small lake, smooth as glass and dark blue. A dock stretches about thirty feet into the water and Sam is currently running to the end of it where there’s a canoe tied up._

_“What do you think, sport?” John asks._

_“It’s awesome,” Dean says, echoing his brother’s statement. “What is this place?”_

_“Your mom’s relatives own it. They called me up at the beginning of summer and offered it to us a for the weekend.”_

_“Can I go down there?” Sam has now climbed into the canoe and is pretending to paddle. He twists around to stare at the other two._

_“Come on, Dean!”_

_“Go ahead,” John says. “But Dean? While we’re here keep an extra close eye on your brother. Whenever he’s in the water or even near it, you have to be there watching, okay?”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Alright, I’ll unload. Go watch your brother.”_

_Both boys traipse inside sometime later, eyes wide with excitement._

_“We’re really not on a Hunt?” Sam asks, sitting down at the table. His legs are too short to reach the ground and they swing back and forth. John hands the kid a box of crackers, which he digs into, sharing with Dean._

_“We’re really not on a Hunt,” John promises. “We’re having a mini-vacation.” If possible, Sam’s eyes get even bigger._

_“We’ve never been on a vacation before,” he says, swinging his gaze over to Dean._

_“Now we are. How was the lake?”_

_“Awesome!” Sam says enthusiastically, launching into a description of the canoe._

They spent three days at the Campbell cabin and then never went back again. Sam occasionally asked during future summers but John refused to talk about it, why the boys never knew. Watching Sam now hurts in more ways than one. He reminds Dean of that small child from so many years ago and yet at the same time Dean lays awake at night and wonders how they got here. How they went from hunting vampires and shapeshifters and revenants to getting mixed up with angels and demon blood. Their life has never been easy or simple but it has never been this terrifying either. Back in those days Dean knew what he was getting himself into, rode the adrenaline spikes like a rollercoaster and charged forward with downward momentum. Now he is off-track and careening in any direction the world chooses to spin him in.

            He throws the blanket over Sam’s shoulders in hopes of stemming the shivering, wondering for the thousandth time in the last hour just how much longer his brother has left.

* * *

            They spend the first week lounging around, settling into a routine that calms both men almost as much as the scenic environment. Dean makes all the food, running into town every couple days to get supplies, leaving Sam only after he’s knocked out from the pills, taking every drop of demon blood in the Impala with him. He goes as far as to lock Sam in the cabin though it’s doubtful his brother will even make it off the bed while he’s gone.

            Sam’s portion sizes get smaller and the withdrawal symptoms progress, the latest being a roaring fever that requires ice wrapped in dishtowels and Dean’s constant reassurance that John is on his way. At least when Sam asks for Bobby, Dean can call the Hunter and hold up the cell up to Sam’s ear. He’s never heard Bobby this patient, this gentle, but the man spends an hour a day on the phone, listening to Sam’s delusionary words and soothing him in ways only a father could.

            When the fever dulls and Sam can get his legs under him, they head out to the docks, parking themselves right by the edge of the water. Most of the time Sam falls asleep in the sun, leaving Dean to keep watch, but sometimes the younger Winchester is fascinated by the activity around him. Little kids run back and forth from the docks to their cabins to a small swatch of sand that everyone calls The Beach. They build sandcastles and rafts, dig moats around their tiny bodies, reminding Dean of rings of holy fire and sigils.

            “Hey Dean, how come we’ve never done that?” Sam’s voice shakes Dean out of watching some toddler try to catch a duckling. Sam’s eyes are focused across the lake where the resort has another set of docks for water activities. A motorboat is pulled up alongside the dock and there’s a crowd of people standing by.

            “Done what?”

            “Water-skiing.”

            The motorboat suddenly takes off, zooming away from the dock and sure enough, there’s a figure gliding behind it, attached to the boat with a rope that’s waving all over the place.

            “Because that looks harder than ganking a Crocotta,” Dean says, squinting in disbelief. “How the hell are they doing that?” A young mother glares at his swearing but he shoots her a Dean-smile and all of a sudden she’s blushing instead.

            “I’d like to try it,” Sam says, quirking his lips into a rare smile. He might have been a nerd when he was younger but he was also into sports and tried out for the school team of just about anything whenever they ended up in a new town. But water-skiing is something he’d never gotten around to trying.

            “Huh,” grunts Dean. Now the skier is moving back and forth, jumping the wake that trails behind the boat. The only thing keeping him up are two strips of plastic strapped to his feet. “I’ll keep my feet on the ground thank you very much.” Sam’s lips purse in amusement but he says nothing, just spends the rest of the time scrutinizing the skiers that go by.

* * *

            Sam has always been plagued with nightmares, from the time he was a child. He doesn’t know if it’s a symptom of the demon blood or the withdrawal or just his twisted mind, but he starts resenting going to sleep at night.

_They were children and there were three of them. Two girls and a boy, all under the age of ten with hair so blonde it looks white. It looks even whiter next the sharp crimson that is splattered about._

_Sam found them early in the morning, living in a boarded up house, and reeking of demon blood. He can practically see it bubbling beneath their skin, can smell it in the air, and now can taste it from the tiny nips he’s taken to keep addict-Sam happy. The problem is that the demons are hiding within the children, using the tiny bodies as prison cells to keep themselves protected from Sam._

_“Please don’t kill us,” the older girl says. She can’t be more than eight but she has both the younger two pushed behind her and bears the brunt of the damage, leaking Sam’s drug of choice. It’s saturated with demon; they must have taken over the children ages ago and been sitting here fermenting. As if they were waiting for him to come along._

_“Quiet,” Sam says, trying and failing to keep the edge out of his voice. The girl just squares her shoulders, reminding him of Dean at the exact wrong time he wants to be reminded of his older brother. He shakes Dean out of his head and focuses on the task at hand. How to get the demon blood out without killing the children. He contemplates maybe siphoning it from them like a djinn but Sam doesn’t consider himself a creature of torture and besides, he doesn’t have the right equipment to get what he needs right now._

_The need is singing to him, bouncing like a jackhammer in his veins, turning him inside out with want._

_“If you’re going to kill us,” the girl tries again, “Just kill me and leave them alone. I’m bigger than them anyway.”_

_She’s trying so hard but addict-Sam isn’t listening; he’s too busy clawing his way out of regular-Sam. He just really really needs the blood and it’s sitting right in front of him and all parts of Sam knows it’s wrong but reason is shrinking, replaced by a fever of temptation and when he takes that first step forward, he can almost feel the hot liquid dripping down his throat._

            Dean is dozing on his bed when Sam starts to fidget, lost in his dream. He awakens with none of the usual fuzziness, instead sitting straight up and reaching automatically for the dropper still in his pocket. Today had been particularly brutal – they’d only been able to spend an hour outside – so Dean’s ready. But he’s not prepared for the sight of a completely distressed Sam writhing on the next bed over, giving out heart-breaking whimpers as his body tries to keep up, sweating and shaking. He’s over Sam in a heartbeat, straddling his hips, bringing out the dropper, surprised when it’s near presence doesn’t wake his brother up.

           “Sam,” Dean says, putting a hand to his forehead, pulling away at the mixture of heat and cold sweat. “Wake up, bud.” But Sam’s not having it; he’s lost in a world unknown and unreachable to Dean and Dean doesn’t like that one bit.

           “Sammy!”

           He positions the dropper in his hand but can’t get it in Sam’s mouth because his jaw is clenched shut, lips pressed together.

          “You’re not dying tonight, brother,” Dean mutters and uses his other hand to pry open Sam’s mouth, a thumb digging into one cheek, his index finger into the other, searching for that spot where he knows Sam has to open up. It’s how John used to get a stubborn Dean to take medication and it becomes useful as Sam’s mouth springs open. He empties the dropper in, clamping his mouth shut for a second and watches as Sam’s body starts to fall limp. His little brother’s breathing starts to even out and the tremors fade and the little moans stop and Dean relaxes.

          Then Sam starts to cough.

          He truly sounds like he’s got a lung caught in his throat; the noise harsh and wet-sounding and painful to Dean’s ears. He gets off of Sam and props him up, more than alarmed when Sam’s lips become coated with red. Not in all his sickness, in all of the history of demon blood ingestion and withdrawal has Sam ever coughed the stuff back up. His body usually swallows it immediately, soaks in as much as Dean offers.

         “Come on, Sam,” Dean pleads and he’s actually down on his knees beside the bed, not praying but as darn close as he’s ever gotten. “You gotta give me one more day. I’m not ready for this.” A second becomes a year and everything Dean’s ever known hangs suspended in the air, visible threads stringing across the room.

         Then it all collapses as Sam’s eyes open and he sucks in a deep breath.


	3. Chapter Three

            “You should have let me die,” Sam says. They’re sitting at the table and he’s ignoring his breakfast while Dean eats both helpings of sausage. “Dean,” he says when his brother doesn’t answer, “I said you should-,”

            “I heard you.” Dean snaps because he doesn’t want to have this talk with his dying brother. Not now, not ever.

            “They were children!” Sam says, almost shouts.

            “Child,” Dean says quietly and the difference in cadence makes Sam pause.

            “What?”

            “It wasn’t children,” Dean says, looking down at his last sausage, wondering when it became unappetizing. “It was a child. Just one.” Sam leans back, letting the chair support him as his chest constricts. It’s hard to breathe and not all the fresh air in the world could make him take a deep breath.

_If you’re going to kill us, just kill me and leave them alone. I’m bigger than them anyway._

            Sam’s brain spins and twists, meshing together what’s real and what’s a true nightmare, fitting those pieces together like they belong to some puzzle of the past.

            “I-I don’t know,” he mutters, shaking his head. Dean watches his brother grow panicked, hair swinging back and forth frantically and the last thing they need right now is for Sam to fly off the handle. When he glances up at Dean, his eyes are wide and frantic. “Dean, I can’t remember! Why can’t I remember? What’s wrong with me?”

            Dean is out of his chair and rounding the table, Sam’s wandering hands settle into his and he presses tight to ease the shaking. His brother is going to vibrate right out of this life and into the next one.

            “Hey, hey buddy, can you look at me? Sammy, it’s okay.” He lets go of one of Sam’s hands and tilts Sam’s chin toward him, forcing him to look over at Dean. With a grunt of worn joints, Dean crouches beside his little brother. “There you go. Easy big guy. We don’t a panic attack, do we?”

            “Can’t ‘member,” Sam mumbles, shame and fever coloring his cheeks rosy.

            “That’s okay,” Dean tells him, making sure to keep his voice strong and steady even as he’s falling apart inside, renting at the seams as if someone is stretching him in too many directions. “Do you want me to tell you?” Dean doesn’t want to do this, almost can’t bear letting the words fall from his lips but he knows that it isn’t going to make Sam worse. Right now, he thinks he killed multiple kids when in reality it was just one. Sam nods and when Dean stands and tugs on his wrists, Sam follows and they move to the bedroom so Sam can lie down. They requested more pillows almost as soon as they got here and the maintenance staff was happy to oblige. Three pillows are stacked behind Sam’s back and when Dean helps him ease onto them, the younger Winchester looks a fraction more relaxed.

            “Do you remember being in Montana?” Sam’s eyes flutter closed for several moments but rest is far off and they both know it. He shakes his head.

            “Well, that’s where you were. You took off from Bobby’s, about three months ago. We had no clue where you were because you didn’t want to be found. We had about a dozen Hunters out looking for you but you’ve always been good at hiding. Used to win at hide and seek all the time and make me so mad.”

            “Montana?”

            “Yep. Found you shacked up in an abandoned house in the mountains. Just you and the body.” He’s blunt and to the point because it’s not worth hiding anything at this point. Sam can take it, has taken so much more than this in the past. “She was a demon, Sam.”

            _Please don’t kill me. Please._

His memory fixes the pleading, patches in the right words and he can see her as if she’s a ghost standing in front of him, watching from the end of the bed. Blonde hair in pigtails with eyes the same color as Sam’s. Not black. Not black at all.

            The degradation swallows Sam whole and he squeezes his eyes only to find crimson images painted on the inside of his eyelids. What’s small and blonde and red all over? Addict-Sam is laughing, howling in mirth at the total destruction he’s caused, lips pulled back and sneering. He’s gotten what he wants and now he’s going to retreat and leave regular old Sam to crumble and disintegrate until he’s nothing at all.

            _Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._

            “She was just a kid,” Sam says. When he coughs, he can feel the wetness but only Dean sees the red shining under the bedroom light.

            “She was a demon and we had to gank her no matter what,” Dean says, wiping the blood from his brother’s lips. It smears across the back of his hand, turning his skin pale by comparison. His brother’s blood is literally on his hands. Dean chokes against the rock in his throat, patting Sam’s knee as he stands. “I’m going to go clean up from breakfast. You want anything?” A minute shake of the head and an exhausted sigh are Sam’s answers. He’s been up for less than an hour and already feels like he could sleep again.

            Dean heads out to the kitchen, stopping to pick up the plates, dropping them into the sink so hard one of them chips. He stares at it for a long minute, head bowed against what just happened. This cannot be real life. They are holed up in a small cabin in the woods and Dean is doing dishes like he’s done a thousand times and Sam is fucking dying in the next room over. The worst part is there’s nothing he can do about it and it’s killing him. He wonders briefly if there’s going to be enough of him left after this to carry on with any semblance of a normal life.

            He does the dishes and wipes the counters and knows he should really check on Sam but something else has his feet moving outside, locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. Dean moves along the lake, the grass growing spongier the closer he gets to the water. There’s a wooden gazebo reaching out over the lake by about ten feet. Dean’s always been an athletic guy, not so into team sports but he’s a decent swimmer and he imagines for a minute diving into the lake and just going. Not breaching the surface but skimming the bottom with the rest of the lake’s dirty inhabitants, content to remain unseen. It’s a dumb fantasy but one Dean can’t shake. He’s never minded taking care of Sam – hell, he likes looking after this baby brother – but its moments like these when he wishes for normality and if not normality, then at least health. When Sam’s…gone…Dean’s going to go out there and gank as many demons as he can before they get him.

            He’s staring out at the lake when he gets an idea that spurs him into action. Bypassing their cabin and avoiding the families he makes his way up to the Lodge, too excited to notice the scenery this time. The main woman, Diane, isn’t there but one of the young college students who helps out is at the front desk and is more than happy to accommodate what Dean asks for.

            It’s as close to beaming as he’s come in the last few months as he heads back to the cabin, happy to find Sam awake and listening to music. He’s pale and a tinge of red on his lips hints at what Dean missed but Dean ignores it.

            “Hey,” Dean says. “Feeling any better?”

            “Worse,” Sam says, voice hoarse. “My eyes have gone to shit again. Not all the way,” he stops to rub them, “but pretty close.”

            “Do you feel like getting out of here for a while?”

            “I don’t think so.” It’s the first time in several days that Sam has decided to stay indoors and Dean takes it as a sign. He forces a grin.

            “Come on, man. Just for a minute. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

            “I’m cold,” Sam says, throwing a blanket over himself.

            “Tough shit,” Dean says. “Get up.” Sam blinks up at him in surprise, eyes unfocused. Dean wants desperately to reach forward and wipe off that blood but he holds himself back.

            “Dean, I don’t feel well.” It’s not a whine or a declaration but a plea. Sam sounds eight years old again, exactly like the time he got pneumonia so bad he had to stay in bed for a week. Except this time there’s no getting out of bed. There’s no getting better.

            “I know, buddy,” Dean says, dropping his voice. He has perfected the quiet, soothing tone that makes Sam swivel his head and listen. Sam always listens to him these days. “But I’ve got something to show you.”

            Maybe Sam knows it’s the last time Dean is going to ask him to do something, maybe it’s because he knows his days are so very numbered or maybe he’s just willing to crawl to the cliff’s edge for his big brother, but Sam nods and Dean helps him sit up. His hands shake too much to tie his shoes so Dean does it for him, grinning up at him and wrapping two blankets around his shoulders, holding them together with one arm around his brother, leading him carefully down the front steps.

            “Where we going?” Sam mumbles. The sun is too bright for his sensitive eyes. When days before he reveled in the warmth, today it seems oppressing, like all four walls of the world are closing in on him.

            “I just gotta stop at Baby real quick,” Dean says. “You gonna fall over if I let you go?” Sam shakes his head and Dean actually believes him, unlocking the trunk and digging the dropper out of his pocket, stashing it in the container that contains their fake IDs. When he comes back to Sam, he knows his brother can tell the difference and each step away from the car is lighter for both of them.

            “Just over here,” Dean says, leading them to a small cabin-like building sitting on the water. Sam’s too busy placing one foot carefully in front of the other to look up so when Dean finally stops, the younger Winchester is surprised to find they are in a dim building.

            “What is that?”

            “It’s a boat, Sammy,” Dean says and there’s so much excitement bursting from him, Sam thinks he’s going to do a backflip right then and there. “I rented us this boat for a couple hours.”

            It’s on the small side, an average Boston Whaler with just a couple seats in the front and back and a huge captain’s chair. The outside is white, the interior is maroon and green; all in all, it’s kind of ugly, but Dean is staring at it as if it’s his own private yacht.

            “All aboard,” he says.

            “That’s a train,” Sam murmurs but Dean helps him over the side of the boat, making sure Sam is situated with his blankets before sitting himself in the driver’s seat and turning the boat on. It doesn’t so much roar to life as whimper but soon enough they’re out on the water, gliding along at a snail’s pace.

            “Doing okay?” Dean says, looking over his shoulder at Sam who is more slumped than sitting, paler than when he was in the house. It’s as though the withdrawal has quickened it’s pace, determined to steal Sam away right from under Dean’s nose and it’s this that makes Dean most nervous. He doesn’t like feeling as though Sam’s going to evaporate when his back is turned, turning into some sort of cloud and never to be seen again. “Sammy?”

            “Here,” Sam says as if Dean’s taking roll call. His eyes are slits against the sun, fingers clenching around his blankets, but his face it tilted toward the breeze as his hair flies back around his ears.

            “Good. Hold tight. We’re not going far. I got you a present.”

            They drive to the other side of the lake, maybe a mile, where the trees are bent out over the lake in a friendly wave, giving shade to the critters beneath the surface. It is here where Dean stops the boat, throwing the anchor of the side. Sam starts at the splash and stares down at the disturbed lily pads dancing next to them. Water bugs are skittering to and fro and over by the edge, a bullfrog takes a lazy leap forward. The water isn’t as blue under the shade; it’s more black and sinister looking, something familiar to the Winchesters and the lake again feels like home.

            The hazy shape of Dean sits in front of Sam, whose vision filters light in and out like a screen, sometimes letting him distinguish features and sometimes making everything one big blur. He’s so tired and the ciquadas in the high grasses are almost like a lullaby. There’s the click-then-swoosh of Dean’s lighter and the smell of flame reaches Sam.

            “Dean?”

            “Right here. Told you I got you a present.”

            Sam can smell it now like he smells everything else; the weed is potent and acrid, biting at his senses as the smoke drifts his way. He coughs once. Dean exhales.

            “Damn that’s good.”

            “I want,” Sam says without meaning to. This is something they used to do as teenagers. Once Sam turned sixteen and Dean decided he was an adult, the elder brother would procure the stuff on a regular basis, always sharing and never making Sam pay. They would sneak out to the school soccer fields at night, or behind the gas station next to the motel and smoke a joint. At one point, Sam owned a bowl shaped like a horse’s head that Dean got a real kick out of. But he hasn’t done this in years, not since Stanford, even though he knows Dean still keeps a stash somewhere in the trunk.

            Sam reaches out a quivering hand but Dean has other ideas.

            “Let me,” he says, his shadow growing as he sits beside Sam, the boat tilting beneath them and shaking Sam’s stomach. It’s a thickly rolled joint and Sam’s lips wrap around it with ease and familiarity when Dean brings it to his mouth, his face clearer now that he’s so close. Sam watches his brother as he lights the joint, eyebrows slightly dipped in concentration, green eyes wide and trusting. Out here, it’s just the two of them. No unwanted third wheel, no dropper to ruin the party.

            “Breathe in deep,” Dean instructs. “I only have the one. Don’t waste it.”

            The smoke burns going into his lungs but the ache is welcomed and when Sam coughs, no blood comes up, only satisfaction at participating in such a normal activity. He laughs as Dean takes a drag, raising his eyebrows over the lighter at the noise but then grinning as he slips the blunt out of his mouth, dangling it over the lake. They sit and enjoy the swaying of the boat, watching several birds soar by overhead, entranced by the clouds that move across the sky.

            Sam can feel the drug working into system as he takes a third hit and it’s the first time in weeks that his muscles have truly relaxed. The spasming is almost imperceptible, the dull ache in his joints sated for the time being. Addict-Sam is nowhere in sight.

            “I thought it might help,” Dean says after a while, tossing the remainder of the joint into the lake and leaning back against his leather seat, feet up on the side of the boat. His body language is casual but his tone is serious. “Did it?”

            “Yeah,” Sam says, amazed. He’s not better – he’ll never be better – but for the time being he is…okay. “Thanks, Dean.” His brother shrugs but the way his shoulders fall tells Sam the gratitude means something to him. And they both know the thank you isn’t just for the weed.

            They spend all afternoon on the boat, riding the high of both the joint and the utter freedom the boat gives them. Sam doesn’t need to rely on his legs or hands to get anywhere and being in the open air and not cramped in the Impala is a nice change to the usual transportation. They don’t waste time with words when silence will do just fine and a trip where Dean thought might have become heavy with guilt and apologies becomes a last hurrah. One more road trip under their belt and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

            When the sun becomes too brutal and it’s clear Sam is exhausted, Dean returns them to the boathouse. Sam’s eyes are almost closed but he’s peering around, trying to soak everything in. He knows he doesn’t have much longer left; days at most.

            “I’ll make us some lunch,” Dean says after he puts Sam back on the bed, covers him with new blankets and makes sure he’s comfortable. “You need anything?” It’s with all the energy he has left that Sam shakes his head.

            Instead of fixing food, Dean sits at the kitchen table and drops his head into his hands, scraping his fingers against his scalp. The high has worn off and Dean finds himself chained to reality again, a slave to his own miserable life. The boat ride was nice but it also underlined everything Dean is about to lose. He feels himself cracking, knowing that something is soon going to cause him to shatter into smithereens. He can’t do this.

The vibrating of his phone pulls him out of his thoughts.

            “Hey, Bobby.”

            “How’s he doing?”

            Dean glances into the bedroom but Sam looks asleep. He moves to the front porch and shuts the door to the cabin, blocking the phone call from Sam’s ears.

            “Not good. You got anything?” There’s a smidgeon of hope in his voice and even that is more than he should allow.

            “No. Dean…I don’t think I’m going to find anything.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Calm down. I’ll keep looking but we’ve never dealt with this before. I don’t even have a direction to search in.” Bobby Singer hears a ragged intake from the other end of the line and goes quiet, giving his quasi-son time to collect himself.

            “Bobby, this is Sam. I can’t just…”

            “I know, boy. I told you, I’m going to keep looking but you oughta think about saying what you need to say.” He lets the words sink in, sear Dean’s flesh like a branding iron, effectively extinguishing that ember of hope. “I know it ain’t easy but at least you get a chance with your brother.”

            “Bobby-,” Dean’s voice is a warning but the older man just keeps talking.

            “Think of all those we lost without a chance to say goodbye. Your folks, my wife, friends, and damn good Hunters. Good people in the wrong place at the wrong time. You make sure that brother of yours knows everything he needs to know. You understand me?”

            “Yeah, I understand you.”

            “Don’t make me come up there and whup your ass.”

            “I said I get you, Bobby.”

            “Good. Now put that boy on. Speaking of things that need saying…”

            But Sam’s no longer on the bed and Dean rechecks the living room in case he missed him on the couch and then a thud reverberates through the cabin and Dean tells Bobby he’ll call him back.

            Sam’s in the bathroom on all fours, coughing and heaving up what seems like buckets of blood, pouring forth like a fountain from Hell itself. It’s pooling on the floor, soaking Sam’s jeans and hands. He looks up as Dean enters and there are tears running down his face and for one awful second, Dean thinks about the revolver in the next room over; it’s possible the lure of the trigger has never seemed so tempting. He can’t handle this.

            _Mom, Dad, I need you. Help me help him._

            “Dean.”

            “Sammy…” He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to be what Sam needs. He’s just a guy who’s mother burned in his brother’s nursery and Dean doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t want this. For his whole life it’s been fight or flight and goddammit if Dean hasn’t always picked the first option. A good soldier doesn’t run from the enemy. But now Dean is staring down at an enemy soaked in his own blood and the urge to run consumes him like fire.

            Instead, he kneels beside Sam, trying not to gag at the warmth immediately spreading into his clothes and at the smell of decaying flesh that is his brother. His brother who is rotting from the inside out.

            _Help me help him._

Sam throws up again, all over Dean’s lap and Dean holds his brother’s shoulders, reaching up behind them to tug down a bath towel, spreading it beneath them.

            “You could use a tic-tac, Sammy-man,” Dean says, digging in the vault for the age-old nickname of their youth. He’s rewarded by the smallest of smiles and guilt floods through him when he remembers the revolver. Sam doesn’t seem to have the energy to talk and that’s okay so they just sit there while until he’s finished getting sick, with Dean spouting little quips and facts that he must have read on the inside of a Snapple top. Anything to distract them both.

            “You know the bagpipes? Those super annoying things the dudes in skirts play? They used to be made out of the skin of dead sheep.”

            “Guess how many toothpicks can be made from a cord of wood? You don’t know, do you? Seven point five million.”

            “Okay, here’s one that’s super weird. The only animal on the entire earth that has four knees is the elephant.”

            Eventually the blood stops flowing and Dean reaches over and turns on the bathwater, changing it to pearly pink as his palm comes clean under the stream. Sam is sagging against him, barely conscious and doesn’t move when Dean starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, exposing a chest that used to be broad with muscle and now is thin and frail. Dean turns the shirt inside out and uses it to wipe the blood from Sam’s face and hands and then throws it aside. It’s probably ruined but that’s okay; they won’t be needing it anymore. Slowly, he stands Sam up and removes his jeans, using the most butterfly of touches to ease the material over Sam’s bruised thighs. The withdrawal won’t leave any inch of skin unblemished. He leaves Sam’s boxers on for dignity and helps his brother into the now full tub. Sam’s sigh of content as he hits the warm water is the sweetest sound Dean has heard in ages.

            He doesn’t know many soothing songs and at first his voice cracks as he starts humming but then he finds the right notes and the stilted chorus of _Hey Jude_ fills the bathroom. There are washcloths in the closet and he soaps one up and then drags it across Sam’s chest, smiling when Sam smiles.

            “Do you like that, Sammy-man? Feels good?” he interrupts himself, moving to his knees so that he’s leaning over the tub. He used to give little Sam baths just like this.

            “ _Dean, how come you have to give me a bath but you get to shower alone?”_

_“’Cause I’m eight and you’re four.”_

_“When I’m eight, I can take my own bath?”_

_“When you’re eight you can do whatever you want as long as you’re not bothering me.”_

_“No, Dean,” little-Sam says seriously, “When I’m eight I’m still gonna love you.”_

“Bobby says to tell you things,” Dean tells Sam, voice low and not so steady anymore. He exchanges the first washcloth for another and washes Sam’s arms with long strokes. “Probably all that crap like you’re the best brother I’ve ever had. But truth is, Sam, there ain’t much you don’t already know.” He swallows hard, noticing how Sam’s eyes are open and watching him. “But I do want to say I’m sorry. For all the stuff I said that I shouldn’t have and all the things I’ve done that I shouldn’t have. All the times I let you down or left you behind or made you feel like you weren’t good enough.”

            He can’t tell if the wetness on Sam’s face is sweat, tears, or bathwater.

            “But dammit Sam, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. And taking care of you kept me sane all those years as a kid. I can’t imagine…I can’t imagine what it would have been like without you. You’ve done so well, Sammy-man, I want you to know that. I don’t blame you for anything and I forgive you for everything, you hear me?”

            There are definitely tears but Sam doesn’t brush them away, just grabs Dean’s hand in one of his and squeezes, his way of saying thank you and strangely, it’s enough. Where words have failed them, the brothers need nothing but a glance to know that the slate has been wiped clean.

            He dresses Sam in warm pajamas, puts him in bed and draws up the blankets, not knowing and yet guessing that when Sam closes his eyes, it will be for the last time. The sound of the water swirling down the drain mixes with the sound of the lake crashing into the shore, the birds outside, and the faint squeals of a happy child. It’s the orchestra of nature come to play Sam one last song. It’s the most beautiful sympthony to fall asleep to and in the midst of it all Dean leans down and presses a kiss to Sam’s forehead.

            “ _Dean?”_

            _“You’re supposed to be asleep.”_

_“I can’t go to sleep without a story.”_

_“Yes you can. Just shut your eyes.”_

_“But you tell the best stories. Just one then I promise I’ll go right to sleep. You won’t hear me til morning.”_

_“Promise?”_

_“Promise.”_

_“Alright, here goes. Once upon a time…”_

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe a oneshot, maybe a three parter, haven't decided!


End file.
